


did the earth not move?

by mockturtletale



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Drinking Your Feelings, Edmonton Oilers, End of Season, Hangover, Heart to Hearts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, baby oil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3797179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockturtletale/pseuds/mockturtletale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today might not be a day they’ll look back on fondly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	did the earth not move?

**Author's Note:**

> For Cory, who is not only kind enough to cry with my on whatsapp about the general misery of being an Oilers fan, but indulges me when I whine for writing prompts on tumblr too. ♥ Specifically, this time, for her prompt of: "Shh c'mere..."
> 
> Warning: excessive and unrealistic amounts of hope for the Edmonton Oilers' professional future? I feel like it's not as much of a stretch to say that three Oilers are banging each other as it is to suggest that they're likely to improve as a team in the coming seasons? That said, I also feel nothing but impatience for the day when the Oilers (these ones mentioned herein specifically) lift that Stanley and by doing so flip the entire NHL the bird. We're fucking coming for you, competence. Some day, we swear.

Drowning their sorrows would be a fine thing, were it possible. 

 

Another season in the books, another year of packing up and heading home when what they want to be doing is gearing up for a playoffs run instead, and there’s not enough liquor in the world; certainly not in the province of Alberta. 

 

They’re professional athletes, or so they’re told, and as such they’re lightweights, but you wouldn’t think it from the amount of alcohol they manage to put away the night after locker room clear out day. 

 

“To baby steps!” someone shouts near the start of the night, when the wives and girlfriends and boyfriends and brothers and sisters and best friends and coaches are still cushioning the team; softening the blow as best they can with their brave faces and entirely unaware, too bright smiles. 

 

It’s one thing to know that they’re human beings worth more than pucks they put in the net; the points they score and the games they win, the shots they miss and the games they drop. They and their families and friends can know it all they like; it doesn’t make it any easier to _feel_.

 

Ryan wonders if he has it easier, sometimes. He thinks about how when he goes home at night, it’s never alone; it’s never to someone who has been by themselves all day, waiting for him to make time for them or finding ways to fill the void he leaves when he goes to work. Ryan never has to tell anyone about his day, never has to deal with the frightening prospect of sharing his life with someone who can’t truly understand it. Ryan never gets to get away from it all, either. 

 

“To next year,” someone says, quietly – hollow, near what becomes the end of the night, because once you start to drink to something like that, it’s kind of hard to stop. 

 

____

 

Ryan wakes up to the instant and distinct knowledge that he’s about to vomit. 

 

He might still be a little drunk, as he climbs – clumsy for once, uncaring about being careful with his limbs – over Jordan and beats a hasty retreat to the bathroom. He doesn’t notice Taylor missing from the bed until he finds him sitting with a proprietary arm curled around the rim of the toilet Ryan needs and intends to claim like, right now. 

 

“It’s all you, babe,” Taylor tells him, moving his arm but staying on the floor, nodding towards the toilet bowl and then wincing dramatically at the ache of movement. Ryan would feel sorry for him if he wasn’t too busy sacrificing the solely liquid contents of his stomach to the porcelain gods instead. 

 

Afterwards, at least, Ryan feels well enough to rinse out a cool wash cloth and dab half-heartedly at Taylor’s sweat-glistening neck and chest with it. 

 

They’ve all got their methods of surviving hangovers. 

 

Ryan pukes a couple of times, eats dinner for breakfast, and promises himself he’s not doing this to himself again until it’s really, unavoidably necessary. As was the case last night. 

 

Taylor sweats it out of his system, mostly. He feels nauseated, but he rarely actually throws up. He drinks an astounding amount of water and is quiet for the whole day; solemn in his self-pity. 

 

Jordan, as the snoring rumbling softly from the bed would indicate, sleeps it off. 

 

“How bad is it?” Ryan asks Taylor after they’ve spent a reassuring half hour or so sitting together in silence, not puking. Ryan is only encouraged to speak at last by the way Taylor’s legs have stopped shaking underneath Ryan’s knees. Ryan has managed to make it to the sink again, got the whole way through brushing his teeth without tempting his gag reflex back into action. Taylor has yet to move. 

 

“Not this bad,” Taylor says, with his head tilted back against the wall and his eyes closed. His hand reaches blindly for Ryan’s and finds it instantly, easily. “We’re doing everything right. We’re doing everything we can. If we keep this up and get a little help from front office, we’re gonna get there. We’ve earned it. We’ve worked ourselves to the fucking bone for it.” 

 

Ryan doesn’t say anything for a minute. He doesn’t think about pointing out that he’d been asking about Taylor’s headache, rather than the giant headache that is their professional careers. He climbs gingerly to his feet, but feels better for it when he knee walks his way up along the outsides of Taylor’s thighs to sit back down in his lap. Taylor hasn’t let go of his hand yet, hasn’t even opened his eyes, but he smiles when Ryan settles and lets his hands find Ryan’s hips. 

 

“If I had to pick,” Ryan says, when he’s had a moment he doesn’t need to think about it, “I’d rather play here with you than anywhere else without you.” 

 

“Anywhere?” Taylor asks, one eye cracking open, bloodshot, to stare Ryan down in his scepticism. 

 

“Anywhere,” Ryan tells him. “Anywhere in the world.” 

 

Taylor’s smile widens so far that he has to close his eyes again in another, albeit smaller wince. Ryan’s going to get up and go and find him some painkillers, in just a second. Just as soon as he can make himself walk away from half of the best thing he’s ever had, even for the twenty seconds it will take him to get to their bedroom and back. 

 

“What about anywhere in time, though?” Taylor croaks after him when he goes, “What if you could play here in the dynasty era? You and Gretz, one and two C? Playing with Kurri? Coffey on defence? All good looking dudes in their day, too.” 

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Jordan grumbles from the bed, saving Ryan the trouble. Taylor rolls his eyes when Ryan meets him on his way back to the bathroom, ibuprofen in hand. 

 

“Yeah, shut the fuck up,” Ryan adds anyway, because it could stand to be repeated. “Anywhere, any time,” he clarifies, letting Taylor eat the pills right out of the palm of his hand, not minding when Taylor licks him out of spite as he does, because Taylor’s mouth is wet and minty fresh now and Ryan appreciates the effort. He more than appreciates it when Taylor lets him push him up against the wall and get himself kissed senseless. Taylor, even a step behind because of his hungover and hurting brain, has the most lush, most talented mouth Ryan has ever found himself gifted with. The way he kisses makes Ryan feel unfurled; as alive as he ever gets, more _open_ than he ever knows how to be on purpose. Ryan always surfaces from Taylor to find himself pressed as close to Taylor as he can get, curled around him and clinging on. 

 

This morning is no different. Their bedroom might smell a little like stale beer still, the pile of their clothes from last night making its presence known and unavoidable. Jordan might be hiding his head under a pillow instead of egging them on or muscling in for his turn. Everything might be just this side of too sharp today; stark and bright in ways that Ryan for once doesn’t like; a focus and punctuation that underlines something they don’t want to celebrate or remember. 

 

But Taylor’s collarbone still feels the same way it always has when Ryan runs the tip of his nose down along the hot line of it. His quick, reflexive intake of breath feels the way it always does when his ribcage expands under the palms of Ryan’s hands, his heartbeat a gently chipped in afterthought. 

 

Today might not be a day they’ll look back on fondly. This season might have been another one to throw away, at least for right now. But there still hasn’t been a second of Ryan’s time in Edmonton that he’d give away. None of this hasn’t felt worth it, to him. 

 

“If I can’t earn it with you two right next to me, I don’t want to lift the Cup.” 

 

It feels a bit like throwing up, again. Ryan feels kind of like maybe he needs to, once he’s said it. 

 

They talk about their feelings all the time. They talk about how much they love playing together, how hard and fast they clicked and how grateful they are that almost everyone around them sees it and lets them revel in it. They’ve been quietly, steadily buying into their future together for years already, but Ryan is talking about forevers now. He’s giving them his always. 

 

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Taylor says, but it doesn’t feel like an insult when he follows it up with a kiss that ends in his literally sweeping Ryan off his feet; scooping him up into a lift and carrying him the two strides it takes him to get them back to bed. 

 

“You’re better than like … five consecutive playoff runs,” Jordan says, getting sappy in the most important way they know how to. He has surfaced from his nest of pillows. His hair is a wild disaster and his mouth tastes like a swamp when Ryan nuzzles into it. “I’m so glad we tanked for you.” 

 

“I bet you say that to all your number one draft picks,” Ryan protests, laughing, but it’s hard to feel anything but utterly content right now, if only for a second, because he’s sandwiched between his boyfriends and that’s exactly where he’s wanted to be for his whole adult life; it’s exactly where he’s prepared and determined to stay. Jordan’s body has been busy keeping the sheets warm for them, and Taylor thoughtfully sets the pillows back in place, very considerately winds his arms back around Ryan’s waist when he’s done. Ryan settles in, wriggling to get comfy. 

 

“Shh c’mere … Connor. That was your name, right? It’s kind of hard to keep track,” Jordan says, grinning while Taylor snickers against Ryan ribs. 

 

“I’ll show you ‘kind of hard’” Ryan promises, and then they’re all laughing, giggling breathlessly as they half-heartedly wrestle, phoning it in because they’re so eager to get to the part where play-wrestling turns into something much more serious and far more fun. 

 

Hard work has never been a deterrent for these three. 

 

Maybe it hasn’t paid off the way they want, yet, and maybe it won’t for a while still. But when it does – and it will – they’ll still be together, and they’ll always have had this along the way. 

 

Turning in Taylor's arms, Ryan pitches himself up and over into Jordan. Jordan welcomes him, and they share him for a while; get Ryan caught between them in a push and pull that he gives himself up for entirely, wholly. Ryan gasps, and they both answer him with the same groan. They knock and tumble against one another, all three of them, hard angles made soft by intent, slick skin striking like thunder claps. They're three mouths, asking. Three sets of hands, each giving; taking. They're three bodies, constantly working, singularly striving, skating for one goal. 

 

They’re gonna build life back into this team. 

 

And they’ll get to know forever that it’s gonna be _them_ that brings it home. 

 

____

 

Ryan and Jordan and Taylor, they’ll punch the heartbeat back into time for the whole city, if they have to. 

 

Theirs is the kind of hope that has teeth. 

 

____  
___  
__  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Not true, not profitable, not intended to insult or upset.


End file.
